Solitary Jester
by Van1tas
Summary: A series of short stories about charming, young sociopath named Vanitas Lucio. He thrives during the Victorian Era, United Kingdom.
1. Prologue

"Vanitas."

 _His only solace in pain._  
 _A tyranny stricken, both vanity and light._  
 _The perpetual darkness that lurks._  
 _Which rears thy ugly headeth_  
 _That gent simply is and not am._  
 _A fool that deceives_  
 _Upon realization that 'tis thee_  
 _who is deceived most of all._

* * *

And by which I am the fool, who believed he could go against time.

To be able to bargain with death himself, to laugh in his face.

A grim tale of a stricken, solitary jester awaits thou.


	2. His Sanity, Faltering

_His Sanity, Faltering_

 _\- Beginning Chapter -_

* * *

The sun rising, it means a sense of beginning, does it not? It gives you a false sense of security, new hope for the day. The sun for me however, signifies a perturbed sense of anxiety. It's rapid, filling my lungs everso with some kind of adrenaline. My nerves shot from the night before, it could mean only one thing: another day. So while the sun illuminates the manor, shooting through my curtains, it fills my face with color. I'm lying there, feeling its itching rays bounce off my skin, into the corners of my eyes. My face is coated with this sick, disgusting grin. I can only hear my mother, hear and feel her tearing the sheets off of me.

"Get up, it's a new day! Aren't you happy, aren't you glad? Aren't you..smiling?"

It's imaginary, I tell myself. She's not there, and my day has not begun yet. The messy sheets are where they always are. I'm so used to routine, it's almost unbearable. I keep lying there, trying to comprehend it like I can feel these things. I had the dream again, the licking flames, the depriving oxygen. I could almost taste the faint smoke like burnt rubber. I drifted off into this fantasy, while my body seemed to move itself. I got dressed, my tired fingers working themselves swiftly, almost mechanically. None of it mattered, it was not as though I had anything to do anymore, yet my limbs seemed to contradict me as I found myself descending stairs. Ballroom dancing was on my mental schedule, right after a helping of _hors d'oeuvre*._ There was much to do, I thought as I peeked into mother's room. There she was, brittle but pristine and well-dressed. I lifted her veil to gaze upon her delicate features. Cold, yet a faithful reminder of her angular visage. I led every dance, from square dancing to the waltz.

It became a warm afternoon, the sky turning a pale pink toward the shadow of the manor. I was so caught up in dance, I did not even detect the eager young girl running toward my door. She was around my age I assumed. A dainty, yet ill-mannered one from the other countryside. Often running miles, it was a wonder her feet did not give way underneath her. A demanding knock, followed by a particularly loud calling was enough to make me rest from dance, and to set mother on the sofabed. I opened the door to two missing teeth and a high ponytail.

"Vani!" was what I managed between a punch in the torso, and a slight lisp.

I responded in otherwise slight agitation, but tolerance as I stepped aside to let her in. In some superficial awe, she always found my home to be some kind of museum, or an exploration trip. I offered her the tier of _hors d'oeuvre_ before busying myself in the kitchen. I should have been more careful, I thought, for she had wandered off into the viewing room and had caught sight of mother. I appeared to have startled the girl, to have slipped beside her so silently.

"She's awfully quiet. Is she shy?"

"Most certainly." I moved toward mother, taking her gloved hand into my own.

"May I see her, please?" The girl inquired, laced with curiosity.

I gave her a quirked kind of smile, as I motioned for her to come closer. She gladly came, even skipping along as she did so. Oh, did I wish I could return to those days of pure innocence. Her face broke into a grin, beaming as she did.

She perched near my mother staring right into her doting face, a mess of excitement. Grabbing her hand, she shook it with quite some vigorous force.

"Hello there, Madam! How do you -" and then it happened.

My mother's hand broke off like a plastic, styrofoam doll. Her body jerked with enough exertion to cause her veil to slip.

"Your mother she's… she's-" the child sputtered in an uncontrollable nature. Clearly stricken by the horror that had befallen her.

The hollow eyes of my mother hung lifelessly, unfocused. Her porcelain skin was radiant however, more so than when I had gazed upon her earlier. The sharp, prodding jawline that angled the shape of her intensely reddened hair. Upon a vague recollection, the child realized she was still holding her hand, dropping it in sheer horror. I could only help but laugh in the light of amusement.

"She's beautiful, isn't she?"

* * *

 **References:**

 _hors d'oeuvre -_ a savory French dish, typically served as an appetizer.


End file.
